Always Thought That I'd See You Again
by GLuisa88
Summary: Sam is at Stanford when he gets the call that he's been dreading his entire life. Dean is dead...or is he?
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Always Thought That I'd See You Again  
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**Summary: Sam is at Stanford when he gets the call that he's been dreading his entire life. Dean is dead... or is he?  
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**Rating: T**

**Word Count: 880 **

**Characters: Dean and Sam**

**Warnings: Language**

**No! I have not forgotten about my The Kissing Disease (which only has one chapter left!) or The Hail Mary Pass- I began a couple affairs with a couple other stories so the other two are waiting until I get back! I would never abandon a story!**

**This story is only going to be about three chapters long and I should have it all posted fairly quickly.**

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><p><em>He'd thought about changing his number.<em>

_Just to avoid this call._

_He had nightmares about this. He thought that maybe if he couldn't hear about it, it couldn't happened._

_If a tree falls in the forest..._

_"Sam Winchester?"_

_And even though everything was screaming at him to _Hang the damn phone up, you don't want to hear this! _He said, _"Yes? This is Sam..."

It was only three hours later and he felt numb.

He needed to claim the body. It had only been one year since he had last seen his brother but he wondered if he would be able to recognize him. He wondered how much he had changed, if at all. Wondered if there would be new scars that he didn't know the story behind.

He thought about the last thing he ever said to him which was nothing at all. He thought about how he walked out the door, neither one of them making eye contact. Both feeling too much anger, hurt and betrayal to acknowledge the other.

And now it hurt too much for words. Did he know? When he was dying, did he know how much it would tear Sam up? Or did he die wondering if Sam would even care?

"_Why did you call me?" Sam had asked the officer._

"_You were the last person he dialed."_

"_What about our dad?"_

"_Couldn't reach him."_

He boarded the plane and hoped that maybe when the plane lifted off, his pain would be left behind on the tarmac.

**...**

It was a four hour flight and he tried to fake it when the little old lady sitting next to him wanted him to smile, "You're far to pretty to be frowning, young man!" She told him.

He tensed up when she put her hand on his knee because right now he didn't want to be touched by anyone.

He just wanted to be in his own safe little bubble where nothing could hurt him.

He dosed up on Dramamine and if he took one too many he didn't really care. It made him dozy and for that he was grateful. He knew there was no other way he would be getting through this flight.

For all the years that he'd been preparing for this day, it really shouldn't hurt this bad. But it did because the guy had been his entire world. For the first eighteen years of his life, he had been his father, his mother, his brother and his best friend, all rolled into one.

And for all the scars that he wore on his skin, he knew that none of them went as deep or hurt as much as this. This would never heal.

He didn't think he wanted it to heal.

**...**

Sam clung to the idea that maybe it wasn't Dean. Maybe it was all a mistake. Please don't ask him why this body happened to be wearing Dean's phone. He wouldn't have an answer for that.

He half expected to get there, take one look at the body and say, "This isn't my brother! Take him away!"

He'd go back to Stanford and get on with his life like nothing had happened. Maybe he would call Dean just to say hi.

And maybe tell him that he'd missed him like hell and "Hey, are you ever in the area cause maybe we should grab some beers."

The room was too brightly lit and too cold.

The man opened the drawer and pulled out the body.

Sam held his breath and stared at the scars on the man's neck, unwilling to look any further.

The man nudged him, "We need a positive ID... He had no identification on him."

He blinked a couple of times, took a deep breath and oh God help him, it was Dean. It was his brother Dean.

He didn't remember much about what happened after that. He thought he signed some papers, he may or may not have called his dad, and then he signed some more papers so that Dean's belongings could be released into his possession.

**...**

He found the name of motel Dean was staying in off the key card which was part of the box of Dean's belongings that had been released to him.

The grief was overwhelming. He opened the door to the motel room and he was struck by just how much the whole room screamed 'Dean' and he wished so hard that he could have seen Dean just one last time.

To fix whatever had gone wrong between them.

A few hamburger wrappers littered the floor.

He sat at the edge of the unmade bed and went through Dean's belongings.

There was his clothing: his black t-shirt, his blue jacket, his jeans.

His favorite boots.

The ring that he always wears... wore on the fourth finger of his right hand.

Twenty-seven dollars in cash, the phone number of some chick named Bri, the key to his motel room and the key to his Chevy.

His wallet sat on the bedside table beside a Gideon's Bible.

It wasn't until the third time that Sam went through Dean's things that he noticed that Dean's amulet was not among them. And it was not with any of his other things either.

He wondered when Dean stopped wearing it. He buried his head in his hands and cried.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Oh my gosh, I am overwhelmed by the response to the story- thank you SO much to those who have reviewed, favorited and alerted! **

**Several people have asked if this is a death!fic to which I can only say that it depends on how you define "death!fic"... and with that cryptic answer, on with the story! Hope you enjoy this chapter!**

**A/N 2: I struggled so hard with this chapter, whereas the last chapter just came to me, I really had to force this one out. So that's why it's so late. Anyway, I sincerely hope it was worth the wait and hopefully the next chapter will be sooner in coming :)**

_Earlier.._

Dean hated working alone. Hated not having someone there to bounce ideas off of when researching and investigating a hunt.

Hated not having someone to crack a joke at or like when he was told by a state representative that the ghost of Joe DiMaggio was haunting him because he had slept with Marilyn Monroe, he hated not having someone to nudge and smirk, "Shit sure gets crazy!"

And now here he was in Decatur Illinois, sore and exhausted from desecrating graves and now he had another reason to hate ghost hunting alone: The sore muscles that came after having to dig a seven by three by six foot hole in the ground by himself.

The record breaking rain fall hadn't helped. The rain made his grip on the shovel slippery and the dirt heavier than normal.

John had sent him to exterminate a ghost which had been bothering a small church in Illinois. Killing random parishioners with seemingly no connection other than all attending the same services. The spirit had been that of the fifty year old church secretary who had offed herself right in the middle of the reverend's sermon. Apparently she hadn't liked the new church carpeting. Or at least that's what the young assistant pastor had irreverently joked.

Predictably, the bones had been buried in the church cemetery, right in the back of the church. Though supposedly that had been controversial- many parishioners had been offended that she be allowed to be laid to rest with the good Christians who had died before her.

The Reverend had been grateful for Dean's services but had said he didn't know how he'd explain to the church board any moneys for services rendered. Dean understood, hadn't expected payment. Never did.

The reverend felt guilty, saying that Dean was doing "the Lord's work" and so in the end he had handed Dean a fifty from his own pocket.

The job had been frustratingly easy. Dean had finished in two days that which Dad had given him a week to do. Frustrating because Dean knew that he could do more than just salt and burns. Frustrated that John wouldn't trust him with more.

John had been annoyed that Dean was done so quickly.

Which confused Dean to no end.

When pressed, he reluctantly confessed that he had wanted Dean out of the way for a while. He had a lead on the Demon. "I just don't want you getting hurt. I don't know if the lead is anything but it looks kinda like it might be big." He admitted.

Hurt, his ass. Dean could not remember a time in his life when he was _not_ in harm's way. Dean was hunting monsters that could rip his head off with their bare hands before he even knew how to drive. And he had known how to drive a car before most kids had even reached highschool.

This had stung. He'd been hunting his mom's killer since he was a child. He'd spent his entire life helping his father find revenge. Dad had lost his wife but Dean had lost his mother and his entire childhood to this demon. This was his fight too. "Dad, don't shut me out of this." He had pleaded, "Let me help."

And as he had said it, he wished he could take it back. He didn't think he wanted to hear his dad's response- he was pretty sure he knew what it would be. John may try to put it diplomatically but no matter how he dressed it up, it would come down to: "Dean, you're a liability on the hunt. I can't worry about the demon if I have to worry about you screwing things up. Do you need to be reminded of Paducah?"

And no, he didn't.

"Dean." John sighed. "You-"

"You know what?" Dean had interrupted, "Never mind. Though I'd prefer not to hang around here, just cooling my heels."

"Hustle some pool. We could use the money."

"Isn't there a job I could do? I mean, hustling pool is not exactly a full time job."

"Look, wherever this lead takes me, I honestly think I'm gonna be done in a coupla days... I don't think you'll have time to get involved in a hunt down there."

"Whatever." Dean said, perhaps a little more sharply than he had intended, "So I'll just... I dunno. Cool my heels for awhile." Dean wasn't sure if he had been able to keep the petulance from his tone.

John sighed heavily, "Dean. It's not that I don't trust you- it's just-"

"Yeah. I get it." He'd interrupted, "Gotta go. I got some important stuff goin' down so-"

He could almost hear his dad roll his eyes, "Alright. Call me if you need anything."

"Yeah. Sure." He'd said, flipping the phone shut.

...

He found a local cafe which the locals said had the best coffee in the area. He grabbed a quiet booth in the back and ordered a coffee and a newspaper. Told the waitress to keep the coffee coming.

He had decided that for the sake of his own sanity, he would find himself a hunt. Something to do with himself so that he wouldn't go batshit crazy.

He found something on the fifth page, buried in the left hand corner of the local newspaper.

The med student, whose name was being withheld from the public, had been brutally tortured. Had died from a loss of blood.

The authorities were being cagey in their answers to the press. All that could be said was that the victim was most likely killed by someone she trusted.

Damn, that sucked.

What had intrigued Dean was that the murder had sounded almost ritualistic. Not that the paper had held many details but Dean knew what to look for.

"Dean? What are you doing here?" Dean hated nothing more than being sneaked up on.

He looked up, "Bri."

She grinned as she took the seat across from his.

"Yeah. Sure. Have a seat." He said, rubbing the back of his neck and returning a weak smile.

"Holy hell! What are the chances of us meeting up again in a random cafe?"

"Like, one in a million." He replied wearily.

...

He took a deep breath of the chill Chicago air, hoping to clear his head.

He had managed to put up with nearly ten minutes of her inane chatter. Her constant pestering him to tell her all about himself- asking questions that not even Sam would have gotten away with quickly pushed him to the edge of his endurance.

He had thrown back the rest of his coffee, tossed a couple Lincolns on the table, stuffed his newspaper in his pocket and with a tight smile, made his excuses and fled.

But not quickly enough to avoid the lipstick stained napkin with her number written on it that she thrust into his hands.

The walk back to his car was more exhausting than it should be. He felt nauseated.

Pausing for a moment, he leaned a shoulder up against the brick wall to steady himself until the wave of dizziness passed.

The rain hadn't let up much and his chest felt heavy and constricted. Every step he took felt like he had lead tied to his feet. He was bone weary and several times he was tempted to set himself down in the middle of the sidewalk and let himself fall asleep.

The only thing keeping him moving forward was a need to get out of the rain, out of his wet, cold clothing and into a warm, dry bed.

He didn't think he'd be able to drive back to the motel like this. Maybe he would just lay himself out on the back seat of the Impala and sleep it off.

He shivered violently and hoped he wasn't coming down with something.

...

Several times he had almost given up and hailed a taxi. He figured he could be driven back to the motel and then return for his car the next day.

But just as he was about to do so, he spotted his Impala about two blocks up the road. He figured he could finish the walk that far.

His hands were shaking making it difficult to unlock the car door. The loud noise that came from behind didn't register until he felt an the intense, sharp pain spreading through his chest. Stumbling forward, his head slammed against his car, he could feel the blood as it trickled down his forehead.

"Shit." He choked.

He threw an arm onto the roof of the car, trying to gain some purchase, the rain water making it impossible.

His body slid against the side of the car, gray beginning to blur the edges of his vision.

His head hit the ground with a sickening crack just as everything went dark.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **Always Thought That I'd See You Again (Part 3)

**Summary: **Sam is at Stanford when he gets the call that he's been dreading his entire life. Dean is dead... or is he? Pre-series.

**Rating: T**

**Word Count: **1900 (for this chapter)

**Characters/Pairings: **Sam, Bobby, Gen (This chapter)

**Warnings: **Language, angst

**Genre: **Hurt/Comfort

**A/N: **I suck. No, seriously, I suck. And I am a very slow writer! So I apologize that it took me so long to update and I apologize that I said this story would be three parts and it's clearly going to be quite a bit longer!

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><p><strong>Story So Far: <strong>_Sam gets news that Dean is dead. Flies out to Illinois to identify the body that was found. In flashbacks, we see that Dean was just wrapping up a salt and burn when he runs into an old friend at a cafe. After an awkward conversation, he takes his leave, and while walking back to the Impala, he collapses._

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><p>"If all you expect out of life is shit then you're never disappointed."<p>

That had been Dean's philosophy, the words of wisdom he'd offer Sam whenever he grew tired of listening to Sam bitch about how much life sucked.

Sam had always refused to believe that. Had wanted to believe that life was what you made of it. Unfortunately, he had made the mistake of repeating this firmly held belief to Dean. "Where did you get that?" Dean had mocked, "You sound like a freakin' motivational poster. How's this for you? Life sucks and then you die."

"You're a sad man, Dean. Real sad."

...

It hurt. It hurt so damn much.

It didn't feel real. It didn't feel _right._ Dean was always getting hurt and he was always fine. Dean wouldn't leave him like this because Dean never had. It was the one constant in Sam's life. The one thing he could always count on.

The worst part- it wasn't even a monster that had got his brother- it was a bullet. One damn bullet.

Sam remembers the time when an angry spirit had tried to drown Dean. When the doctors couldn't get Dean's heart to start beating. When they were this close to giving up and declaring Dean dead.

Dean had pulled through.

And the time when Dean had lain in the back seat of the car, bleeding out. Sam sobbing, trying to apply pressure to the wounds while Dad drove the car to the ER, _"Just shut up Sam, just shut the hell UP!"_

He put his head in his hands and tried not to hyperventilate.

The ticking of the clock and his ragged breathing stood in stark contrast to the silence of the room.

He blinked. Stared down at the corner of the bedspread that he had been twisting in his hands. His mouth was dry and his chest hurt.

He can't do this.

...

Sam didn't know what he had expected.

Why did he think that this time, things would be different? Why did he always expect so much out of Dad? (_"If all you expect out of Dad is shit then you're never disappointed."_ Now those were words Sam could get behind. Hell, make a t-shirt of it.)

They say stupid is repeating the same mistake and expecting different results.

Like calling Dad's phone twenty-seven times in the course of two hours and still feeling anger, disappointment in the pit of his stomach each time he reached voicemail.

Sam just dialed again. Cursed his father, called his grandmother bad names when no one answered.

A small, petulant part of him wondered if dad would be picking up if it was Dean's name on the caller ID. Sam would have tried that- calling with Dean's phone- but the police were holding it as evidence. Shit.

Speaking of police, several officers had called saying they wanted to talk to Sam as part of their investigation into his brother's death. Wanted him to come into the station as soon as possible- or if more convenient, they offered to send out a couple detectives to speak with him.

Whatever. He just wanted to be left alone. It's not like he knew anything anyway.

...

He sat on the edge of Dean's bed, in a motel room that smelled of cigarette smoke and mold and his childhood.

And he wondered what happened now.

His roommate had called, wondered where he was, who he was with and why the hell did he miss joining him and his friends for Frisbee golf that afternoon?

"I'm in Illinois. My brother died." Sam had said. It was all he could manage without completely breaking down.

There had been an uncomfortable pause, "I didn't know you had a brother, man." Dealing with grieving people is tough and Damon's people skills had always been lacking.

Sam swallowed thickly and tried to figure out how to respond to that.

"So when you comin' back?" Damon asked.

Sam opened his mouth to speak- closed it when he realized he didn't have an answer for that either. "Look Damon, I gotta go. I'm waiting for a call from my Dad."

...

No. Absolutely not.

He refused to entertain such fears. He was just on edge, still emotionally raw from Dean's death.

Dad was on a hunting trip- perhaps he had his phone turned off, perhaps he was away from cell reception. No worries. No reason at all to worry.

Perhaps he had received Sam's messages- maybe he just didn't want to talk to him. Not like that had never happened before. After all, Sam was pretty sure that "If you walk out that door, don't you ever come back" extended to phone calls.

He tried to work up some anger about this- that was easier to deal with than fear. Nevertheless, the knot in his chest didn't loosen and the anger couldn't steady the trembling of his hands.

It had been over a year since Sam had last seen his father. Even longer since he had felt any _need_ to see his father.

Right now was the first time for longer than he could remember. His chest was tight and his throat ached with the intense longing to just feel his dad's strong arms around him. To go back to the days when he was small enough that his dad's entire body would wrap around his and he'd feel safe and warm and protected.

Because he can't do this. Not alone.

...

Jet lag, Dramamine, and grief finally caught up with him.

It was a restless sleep, he dreamed that Dean showed up at Stanford, in the middle of one of Sam's lectures, to let him know that he had died. Asked Sam what he intended to do about it. Not in so many words, but that's what it amounted to.

"Well, I'm in the middle of finals right now." Sam had said. "It's not that I don't care..." he added- didn't want Dean getting the wrong impression or anything.

"Winchester." The professor said, focusing his eye on Sam (the other eye was glass), "What's all the whispering? Something you want to share with the rest of us?"

"Come on," Dean nudged, "Let's take this outta here."

"If you walk out the door," The professor warned, "Don't you ever come back."

Sam turned to Dean but Dean was gone.

...

The persistent pounding on the motel room door eventually roused Sam from his sleep.

For a moment he thought he was back at Stanford, "Uuugh." He groaned, "Don't tell me you locked yourself out again." He muttered., his bones aching as he rolled to a sitting position. It wouldn't be the first time Damon had locked himself out of their dorm room. Well, actually, Sam who had locked him out but it was Damon who had forgotten his keys.

His breath caught in his throat as he blinked against the light of the bedside lamp which he hadn't switched off before falling asleep.

Shit. Not Stanford. Not Damon.

He glanced at the clock. Who the hell would be pounding on the door at 4:30 in the morning?

Someone for Dean since no one knew Sam was here.

He didn't want to be dealing with this. He reached underneath the pillow, found the knife that he knew would be there.

Armed and satisfied that he would be able to defend himself against anything that might be lying in wait for him, he put his ear up against the door, "Who is it?"

"Dean, open up! It's Bobby!"

His hands trembled as he clumsily attempted to unlock the bolts, threw open the door and nearly knocked his uncle over as he pulled him into a desperate hug.

"Damn it, Sam." Bobby said, his voice muffled in Sam's hair, "What are you doing here?"

Sam bit back a sob, "Good to see you too Bobby." He pulled back, taking in his uncle, "Were you working on a hunt with Dean?" And as he asked it, he knew it wasn't so. Sam wouldn't have been called if Dean had had help on the case.

Bobby would've identified the body and notified Sam of his brother's death. Bobby wouldn't be standing at the door wondering why Sam was in town.

"I got a call from your brother." He said, pushing past Sam and entering the room, "I got here fast as I could... which was about three hours ago. Been driving around tryin' to figure out which motel your brother was staying at. Called around, there were nearly half a dozen different motels that I thought he might be at."

"Where's your brother, Sam?"

Sam didn't even try to hide the tears, "Dean's dead, Bobby."

...

Bobby brought whiskey which he shared with Sam. Poured it into tiny little Dixie cups.

Sam was enormously grateful that Bobby had brought his own booze. Sam had found a flask of whiskey in Dean's duffel earlier, when he was going through Dean's things, and tempting as it was, Sam couldn't bring himself to drink it.

It felt wrong even though Sam couldn't really explain why.

Bobby had been reluctant to believe the news. "Are you _sure_, Sam?" "You saw the body?" "What about his scars? The one across his stomach? Was it there?" and so on and so forth.

"We ain't gettin' drunk." Bobby said, pouring him and Sam one last shot before tucking the bottle back into his bag, "Just somethin' to take the edge off."

Sam nodded miserably, throwing back the drink. He crushed the paper cup in his fist, tossed it across the room into the waste basket.

"We've got work to do," Bobby said, "and we can't be shit-faced if we intend to find the monster who did this to your brother."

"It was a bullet, Bobby. It was human."

"Not all monsters are supernatural, kid."

Sam nodded. Was silent for several moments. "Tell me about this call you got from Dean." He asked softly, tracing with his finger the life lines on the palm of his hand.

Bobby grunted, "Barely coherent. Knew somethin' was wrong immediately. Couldn't make out much other than that he'd gotten himself into some deep shit."

Sam remembered that Dean had tried to call him as well. He hated himself for not having picked up the phone- would things have been different if he had? "How did you know he was here?"

"In Chicago? Knew he was on a hunt here. Your dad wanted your brother outta the way for a bit. Asked me if I could find him an easy hunt... so I did."

Sam swallowed back the blame that he wanted to place on his uncle. Blame for sending Dean here in the first place. Wanted to blame Dad as well, for letting Dean out of his sight.

"So." Sam began, "Dean called you for help?

Bobby nodded.

"That means he knew something was after him."

**TBC**


End file.
